Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 670: Tell all who will hear

–Thud. Thud. Thud.

Javelins struck iron circle in the shields in rhythm, a pounding that rolled through the ranks like thunder. The sharp metallic clangs echoed off the stone walls of Herculia, each blow punctuated by the barks of orders.

"Move! Keep moving!" "Let’s go—we’ve no time for your slow feet!"

Soldiers in Yarzat colors, black and white, the colors that the Herculeians had learned to fear, snarled and shoved, corralling the long line of displaced souls through the ruined gates. Thousands of them: citizens, soldiers, remnants of what had once stood in defiance , now marched with heads bowed, herded like livestock through the city streets.

These were the ones who had chosen flight over fealty, who had accepted Alpheo’s offer of safe passage. It had been extended to all: the garrison, the townsfolk, even the highborn who would have usually fallen captive for a ransom.

Yet most of the local militia, city-born and blood-bound, had stayed behind, too rooted in their home to abandon it, especially now knowing that they still had a chance at life.

Those who had now moved eastward were mostly the men who had followed Lord Cretio, and with his death, their purpose had also died.

For two days, they had been kept penned in a crude, makeshift camp just outside the siege walls—wooden palisades now stripped bare and splintering.

None among them knew what lay ahead. The guards driving them forward gave no hint. Their silence was not of peace, but simply a quiet they felt would not last, and the looks the invaders gave seemed only moments from turning fatal.

Many feared they were being marched to their graves.

Fortunately for them, death was not today’s sentence.

Instead, they were led to the eastern edge of the city, where a massive wooden pavilion had been raised seemingly overnight. Its beams were still raw, lashed with thick cords, yet the banners fluttering from its sides made it clear this was no holding pen.

The people were sorted with rigid discipline. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

Commoners and soldiers were packed close on the outer edges of the field, murmuring, sweating under the wary eyes of Yarzat’s legionnaires.

Nobles and knights were corralled separately, held behind velvet ropes and wooden rails. Though they were allowed to keep their personal guards, those same guards now functioned more as buffers, meant to keep the rabble away from their silken masters than to protect them from any real threat.

The sun shone bright and pitiless above, lighting every expression, every wrinkle of doubt, fear, or suspicion. The people of Herculia stood waiting to see what fate would be handed to them next, beneath the victorious banners of a man they did not choose... but would soon be forced to call prince.

Among the huddled masses, whispers began to rise , quiet at first, then growing louder, scattered across the lines like sparks on dry straw.

"Why are we still waiting?"

"They said we’d be released—why are we still here?"

"Gods... are they going to kill us?"

"No, no, they wouldn’t do that... would they?We surrendered..."

"They’ve brought us all together for something. What if this is it? A mass execution?"

Mothers clutched their children tighter. Old men held trembling hands over their mouths. Once-proud soldiers glanced at one another with hollow eyes, stripped of armor and pride alike. The pit of fear had opened in their stomachs, and from it poured every terrible guess they could make, like an abyss where, instead of things falling inside, they came out.

And so, consumed by dread, eyes darting to every shadow, they failed to notice the movement above them.

Atop the pavilion stood a single figure, cloaked in his famed black armor. He had risen without fanfare, stepping into the open like a statue come to life, high above the trembling throng.

Alpheo.

The architect of their ruin. The conqueror of their city. The man who had brought Herculia to its knees.

He stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, the wind tugging gently at his dark cloak. His gaze swept across the crowd, not with malice, but with the cold, exacting calm of a man ready to cast judgment.

He did not speak, not yet at least, but his presence said everything.

This was not a moment of mercy. This was not a celebration.

They were just tools, that would soon tend to the task Alpheo had decided for them.

He stood atop the pavilion like a carved effigy of war itself, still, watchful, elevated above the multitudes of broken men and anxious souls gathered below.

He made no sound, not even a gesture. He simply waited.

The crowd had not yet fully noticed him, whispers still hissed between hunched shoulders, mothers still tried to hush crying children, soldiers shifted uneasily, casting eyes toward the Yarzat ranks encircling them. But Alpheo did not speak over them.

Without the need of a signal the rows of Yarzat soldiers stepped forward and, in perfect unison, slammed the hafts of their javelins into the earth with a deep, resonating THUD. The sound echoed like thunder through the field—once, twice, three times—reverberating through bones and nerves alike.

It worked.

The din of murmurs died at once, as if the sound itself had beaten the air from their lungs. Heads turned sharply, eyes wide with alarm. The defeated—citizens and soldiers alike—froze where they stood, suddenly aware of how surrounded they were, how fragile their place in this moment had become.

A child whimpered, but no voice dared follow. Even the wind seemed to hush, retreating into the tension.

Alpheo exhaled through his nose. Slowly, a small, satisfied smile ghosted across his lips.

Now, they were listening.

He stepped forward to the edge of the platform, where the sun struck his figure in full, and raised his hand, not in command, but in address.

And then, at last, he began to speak.

"Defeated lords. Defeated soldiers. Defeated citizens."

The words left his mouth with the clarity of a blade out in the sun.

No emotion laced his tone, only fact. Only finality.

"What lies before my eyes," he continued, his voice rising just enough to blanket the thousands gathered, "are the remnants of resistance. The wreckage of a princedom that has met the weight of its decisions. Most of you, when given the chance to stay, chose to walk away. And though I do not begrudge you that choice...Though I suspect many of you now begrudge me for what followed."

His gaze swept across the crowd, lingering on worn faces, tear-stained cheeks, and proud chins trembling with anger and fear.

"You stood against my host for two long months. You manned your walls. You defied every call to surrender. For that, I grant you this—few cities that resist so fiercely are ever given the mercy to walk free. Your fate, while cruel, could have been so much worse.

I could have made a butcher-house of your city and slaughter your like pig and sheep."

He paused.

"But you do not see it that way. No, to you... I am the villain. The man who battered your gates with steel and fire. The man whose catapults shattered your homes, whose siege strangled the breath from your streets. The man who allowed you to se ,at last, the truth of the one you called your sovereign."

A hush fell deeper over the field, as even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

"You hate me. You curse my name."

His voice lowered, cutting like ice.

"But I was not the one who abandoned you."

Another pause—he let the words settle, let them burn.

"I did not bring war to your gates. I did not leave you behind your walls with empty warehouses and broken promises. I did not forsake the blood price you paid to fund a throne."

He stepped forward, his cloak swaying with authority. Every eye followed.

"My name is Alpheo Veloni-Isha, and where I come from, when a people pay tribute, they receive protection. When they march to war, they are remembered in peace. That is the contract between ruler and ruled. And I have never broken mine."

His voice thundered now, echoing off stone and steel.

"You paid your prince your customs . You served his banners. And when the fire came—where was he? When the enemy gathered outside your walls, where was he? When death marched toward you, was he at your side?"

He let the silence answer.

"I did not start this war to conquer. I did not march for gold or glory. I march because my honor was spat upon, because my people’s lands were made pawns in your prince’s games."

The crowd shifted. Even the nobles had grown still.

"Your prince was no innocent. Time and time again he reached where his arms should not have stretched. Time and time again he whispered poison to men meant to serve a single crown. He is no steward of peace. He is the architect of this very fall of yours, and soon to be his too."

Then, softer, with solemn finality:

"And so, I say to you... the reason for your ruin, the reason for your pain, the reason your lives have been broken ,does not stand here before you. He was never here."

He let the silence grow heavy. Thousands of eyes now looked not at him—but inward.

"Where was your prince?- Why did he not come? -Why were you left to suffer?"

"It was he ,your prince, your liege, your high-born shepherd , who, on the day I was to be wed, as I stood before gods and men to bind my soul to the woman I chose above all else in this world, dared to send not a gift nor a word of grace, but an insult cast like rot at a feast. While the bells tolled and choirs sang, while I reached out to take the hand of my wife, he spat his bile across the land between us.

He called me a dog, unworthy of court or crown, and worse still, he turned his tongue upon my bride, the woman who stood before the altar in grace and devotion, and called her whore.

So, now, here I stand, not before altars, not in temples ,but in his halls, on the cold stones of the city he once ruled, treading beneath my boots the silk of his banners now torn and soiled, and I say to you that I piss on his bed, and I burn the image of his crest from every wall it once dared to cling to.

For every word he spoke in jest or scorn, I return now with fire and steel.

For foul words can only be met with resolute actions.

Do not mistake me ,I granted you life, yes. I spared your limbs and your breath. I offered passage and safety when others in my place would have razed your homes and salted your fields. But understand this clearly: that mercy bears a price.

I left your legs whole, so use them to carry yourselves across the blackened earth that my armies shall soon scorch in flame and thunder. Let your feet know the weight of exile and survival. Let each step remind you that you walk because I allowed it in my generosity.

Your eyes, which I did not blind, must now look full upon the ruin that disobedience has sown. Stare at your broken gates, your shattered towers, your proud walls now humbled. Gaze long and hard, and remember what comes of crossing my will.

Your hands, still yours to raise in prayer, clasp them if you must, but know that no god shall come in time. If there is salvation to be found, it will not be in the heavens, but in the silence with which you shall obey in time.

And your ears, uncut, unspoiled—listen well. You will remember my words long after my banners have faded from your memories. Let them echo in your children’s sleep and in your silence.

That man, Lechlian , your prince, your crown, your symbol .He who dared to call me dog.I name now rat, scuttling in shadow, hiding beneath floorboards, gnawing at crumbs while men of honor make war in the sun.

I call him cockroach, a crawling thing, filth-bound, unwelcome even among the dirt he so proudly clings to.

He insulted my wife with the tongue of a coward. I shall not repay him in kind, for I do not stoop to filth when I can trample it beneath my boot. I am not like him—I am not vile. I am better.

And most of all, you have your tongues, and now I charge you.

Use them.

Let them wag not in defiance, but in testimony. Tell all who will listen. Tell it to the wind, to the beasts of the wild, to the babies in cradles and the elders in prayer. Let no corner of this realm remain untouched by the word and claim ignorance as excuse.

Speak it from your mouths as truth:

That Alpheo, feller of Herculia, victor of the Bleeding Plains, breaker of the tyrant’s line, undefeated under sun or storm, now claims all that once bore Lechlian’s name.

Every village that bent the knee to him, bends now to me.

Every castle that flew his banner, flies now mine.

Every sword once raised in his name, will find no peace unless it lowers in mine.

I claim his lands, his titles, his dignity, and his very name.

But I shall not claim his honor, for he has none.

And if he would challenge me, if he yet breathes behind his walls and still dares to believe in his own right to rule, then let him step forth.

Let him meet me on the field, with sword drawn and courage in hand, and let blood, not words, decide whose name history will carry forward.

But I know him. I have seen what lies beneath that gilded coat of arms, and it is not heart, not courage, not flame, it is fear. So he will not come.

By such facts, I shall go to him.

Tell your neighbors, tell your kin, tell the gods if they still listen: that the war is not over. The tide has not turned. The storm has not yet broken, for I am still to come

Tell them to seek refuge if they can, to hide their daughters and cradle their sons, to beg their priests and light their candles, for the silence they pray for will not come.

Tell all who will hear, I have launched the gauntlet upon your prince’s face, and that whatever he takes it or not, my wrath shall come, and it will not be so easily abated.

Tell them of my coming, and that behind me follows the rage of 3,000 swords."